


Broken

by Bunnyhops



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, Friendship, Gratuitous Smut, Light BDSM, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 03:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7741237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnyhops/pseuds/Bunnyhops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a post-war world, where Voldemort has won, Hermione has been spared and placed in a position of power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Hermione had no idea what to do or say; she was speechless. However, her face betrayed no emotion and her body presented a relaxed but vigilant state. Her mind was reeling though, and her heart was pounding. She was fighting the urge, with every ounce of will she had, to launch herself at him and hug him until he was breathless.

She didn’t… but she wanted to. She hadn’t seen Neville in nearly three years, and he was beautiful to her.

She thought he had died.

Her eyes darted around his face; the square set of his jaw, the hard glint of his eyes as he stared back at her, the firm press of his lips. She almost sighed in despair when she realized that he’d lost that child-like wonder; it was unique to Neville, and now it was gone. She supposed that she’d lost a little bit of her wonder as well. _Could Neville see that?_

The silence was interrupted by a long-fingered hand trailing softly across the back of her shoulders, one end to the other. “Are you surprised, Hermione? Have I done well?” _He_ asked her, with that lisp that sounded so much like a snake’s hiss.

“Yes, my Lord, on both accounts,” she responded, bowing her head in deference to his presence. Neville kneeled as the Dark Lord passed him, murmuring a greeting. Voldemort ignored him and continued his focus on Hermione.

Hermione was surprised by his next words. It was an explanation of Neville’s whereabouts.

“He’s been… training.” Hermione quirked an eyebrow and looked at Neville, now resting on his haunches, hands on his thighs, palms up. It struck her odd, but somewhere in her cerebrum, a synapse was fired, making connections. She could see the definition of Neville’s muscles on his back and arms, and a conclusion of the type of training Voldemort sent him to materialized.

“Mr. Longbottom is now considered a Master in his field.”

Conversations with Voldemort were always like this. He’d give you some nebulous, open-ended declaration and then expect you to draw the right conclusion. He seemed to love it when his followers begged for more detail; hovering about him like children, wanting candy and asking him questions. If they came to the wrong conclusion, punishment would ensue, sometimes for hours, sometimes for minutes.

Hermione didn’t hover or beg; she refused to play his game and give him unneeded attention. _He_ wasn’t a five year old after all.

But he _was_ waiting for her to respond.

It only took Hermione a moment to connect the dots: the quiet, but ready stance, the submissive posture Neville held now, the ravenous manner in which he had stared at her…

“He is a Dominant, then.” It was not a question; Hermione had learned to be confident, but not arrogant with her responses.

Voldemort smiled broadly; his teeth yellow and in the early stages of rotting.

He remained silent, waiting for her question. He knew it was coming; she always had a question. He was particularly proud of this one: Longbottom. He’d waited a long time for the results.

“Was the training difficult? Against his natural inclination I would suppose,” she asked. It wasn’t really a literal question, more of a rhetorical, but Voldemort dove into one of his soap-box monologues about the why’s and how’s. Hermione wasn’t listening, she was remembering.

**< 3 **

****

**_“_ ** _I don’t want to hurt you, ‘Mione,” he’d said, kissing her bare shoulder, with lips wet from his journey between her legs._

_She spread her legs a little more. “You won’t. I want you inside me, please, Neville. We may not get another chance.”_

_He pushed forward then, tearing the thin scrap of skin and stretching her unused muscles. It rendered her breathless for a moment. They were both new to this, but it seemed that Neville had read his fair share of smutty novels (_ belonging to his Gram, of course _) to understand the gist of how to please a witch. And so far, he was doing it all right, if judging by the pitch of Hermione’s scream was anything to go by. Speaking of… She was panting now and had opened her knees even farther apart, which sucked whatever circulation of blood was left in his brain to his cock. Neville thrust in and out rhythmically. Hermione mewled and moaned in pleasure, pumping her hips to meet his._

_He felt the inside walls flutter and squeeze; he wouldn’t be able to last. “’Mione, I’m-“_

_Hermione, taking a hold of his hips to steady them, interrupted him; she thrust hers upward, almost violently; they both came with a fierce shutter._

_They lay there afterward, sweaty and sated, not wanting to part._

_“Whatever happens tomorrow-“Neville started, but Hermione’s fingers on his lips prevented him from continuing._

_“Don’t. Let’s just enjoy the moment, okay?”_

_Neville nodded. “Okay.”_

**< 3**

The next day, the battle hadn’t ended. Harry had sacrificed himself, but he hadn’t come back. Hermione had watched, one by one, as her friends and fellow Order members were struck down and murdered. Only a few were left alive, she being one of them.

There was fog and smoke and blood and mud and bodies everywhere. The survivors sat in a row on the ground. Hermione lifted her face and found a sneering Slytherin staring down at her. She didn’t know the wizard’s name, but she recognized his face; he’d killed Ron.

He had his wand out, pointing it at her, laughing at her. He looked behind him to ask if he could strike down the mighty Gryffindor. No one had a chance to answer, because in that instant, Hermione took his wand and cast the _Killing Curse_. The unknown wizard no longer laughed; he lay flat on his back, staring up at the sky with sightless eyes.

She didn’t stop there. Before they physically wrestled her to the ground, she’d killed three Death Eaters and wounded two more. Severus Snape’s presence seemed to cast a shadow over her vehemence that day. He had shouted at her to end her exercise in futility lest she join the dead by his hand. She’d stopped struggling and snarling, and the men holding her had let her up. Hermione had promptly thrown the wand at him, making him instinctively duck, and plopped down on the ground with the rest of her shell-shocked allies. It was strangely petulant, but fitting.

The Dark Lord had laughed at the scene, while silently considering his newly acquired assets.

“I’m quite surprised to see so many of the blood traitors here. I would have imagined you preferred death over capture,” Voldemort told Fred, George, and Ginny.

It took a second for Ginny to stand and nod. “Kill me. I do prefer death over you.” Tears were streaming down her face and she was the picture of misery, but even in that state, the Dark Lord wasn’t done with her. He walked over and gently brushed his fingers down her cheek, making her violently cringe.

“I remember our time together,” he whispered. “So fresh you were, so _young_.” The last word was drawled out to imply the worst, making some of the Death Eaters snort and nudge each other. Hermione thought it was disgusting.

Voldemort made a signal with his fingers and the three remaining Weasleys were rounded up and Side-Alonged to another location. 

**oOo**

Hermione stumbled across Fred and George occasionally. They had their own lab and were free to do whatever they wanted as long as it benefited He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.

Hermione knew what happened to Ginny, but couldn’t think about it… ever.

**oOo**

Her arms were jerked over her head and clasped to the manacles dangling from the ceiling, forcefully jarring her out of her memories. She hadn’t been paying attention and Voldemort had known. Now she was to be punished. The only words she registered were: “Lick her cunt.”

Neville acted without a word; only obeying the order. Waving his wand, he silently cast a spell to levitate Hermione. His eyes never left hers. He moved forward with grace, slowly unbuttoning her denims.

Hermione still wore her Muggle attire. It was her tiny rebellion against her new Master and a blatant two finger salute to the followers she didn’t like. Not that she liked what they stood for, but she had established a few bonds of casual acquaintance during her time with them. She rationalized that no man/woman was an island. Humans were social animals and needed connections.

Neville jerked her bottoms to her knees, baring her to his perusal.

Hermione was accustomed to Voldemort’s baser forms of punishment. He had effectively reduced his followers to respond and react to their more animalistic natures: food, sex, violence, and sleep.

In a word, the wizard was a pervert of the highest order.

Voldemort sat in a chair by the fire to watch as Neville complied.

Hermione hung there, with her pussy level with Neville’s mouth and her knickers around her knees. Neville inhaled and Hermione’s stomach twisted.

The hesitation must have been too much for the Dark Lord, because he shouted at Neville to get on with it.

Neville hummed in response and leaned forward, making a show of smelling her nether region. His large hands grasped the outside of her thighs to keep her legs together. He opened his mouth and placed it fully over her pussy, stroking her slit with his tongue, wetting the inside of her thighs.

Looking up at her, he flicked her clit then sucked it in, making her take a quick breath. She could hear the slurping and feel the licks. She could feel his teeth rake across her lips and tried to move her hips forward. It felt so good.

He closed his eyes and took her in, licking, sucking, nipping, and squeezing the fleshy globes of her bottom with his hands.

Hermione’s climax was ruined, utterly, when the raspy voice of Voldemort spoke. “Make her come, now.”

Neville twitched. He had almost forgotten the situation, but he recovered and pulled away. He lifted Hermione’s legs and placed them around his shoulders. Her denims trapped him, but spread apart her knees. Slipping his thumb inside of her and his forefinger in her anus, he rubbed her perineum gently.

Hermione heard herself making wanton mewling sounds and little grunts of desire.

Neville milked her clit softly until he felt her legs shake. A moment later, she keened with pleasure. Neville stayed where he was, lapping at her gently, inhaling her sweet scent, and wanting to stay there forever.

He’d thought about her everyday. The image of her had kept him from going mad when the pain was too intense; when the training was too uncomfortable, before he’d learned to deal with the raw nature of the subject.   He’d remembered her smile; the way she would chew on the end of her quill while they studied. The way her mouth felt on his. The sensual way her delicate hands felt as they touched his skin. His heart was near bursting with love for her… still.

Voldemort cleared his throat and stood. “You may go, Mr. Longbottom.”

Neville stepped away and left the room without a look back at Hermione. He had a place of his own and the freedom to walk unattended; he would see her again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

Draco stood in the corner, silent and unmoving. His chin was up and his shoulders were squared; it was like having their very own carved marble statue in the shape of a young Malfoy. They only needed to plug a water pump into his bum and sit him in the gardens as a water feature.

Draco felt Hermione staring and shifted his gray eyes to meet hers. The corner of his mouth twitched. It was his form of a smile. The exchange lasted a second at most then he returned to listening to Voldemort. Draco was nothing if not focused.

He was also broken. He was broken beyond repair. He felt no compassion, no sympathy, or consideration. He was, however, overly affectionate, clinging to physical touch like a life line. Draco’s behavior was much like Sirius’ had been the year he broke out of Azkaban.

Draco had been angry and hateful when Hermione had first been brought to the Manor. Voldemort had kept her caged in the center of the ballroom at Malfoy Manor for two weeks; no bath, and with only a bucket for evacuation. She’d been mortified, holding her bladder for as long as she could; to the point of unbearable pain. Hermione had lasted two full days, but on the third night, when she thought everyone was sleeping, she’d squatted over the bucket.

At that moment, the lights turned on and they all had laughed at her need for privacy, except Draco. He hadn’t laughed.

Voldemort had realized during the battles that lead up to her capture that Hermione was strong. She could endure pain, but she was a proud witch and that would be her downfall. He used humiliation as a form of punishment. She’d learned quickly not to gain his disapproval.

That incident was her induction to accepting her fate. The second incident was to have her stripped naked in front of Voldemort and a few others. She’d stood in the center of the room while they perused her form, leered at her, licked their lips, and studied her imperfections. The humiliation gradually increased to lying on the ground with her legs spread wide then to touching herself, with an audience present. This was in response to her clawing at Rodolphus Lestrange and scaring his handsome face with her sharp nails when he was ordered to wash her. She was fairly certain he was going to beat her to death with his bare hands, but all he’d done is spit out the blood and roughly wipe his cheek with his hand then proceed to pin her to a concrete dungeon wall and pelt her with cold, hard water from a hose. All the while he sneered gleefully at her screaming.

It took months for her to turn off her brain and just let it be. _They_ almost never touched her, and when they did, it was gentle caresses and not anywhere near her vagina or breasts. During which, Voldemort would talk to her about purity of magic, and goals and power and life. Slowly, he broke her down, promising her life; freedom to do what she wished as long as she served him when he called.

Once she stopped fighting, she was sent to live with Rodolphus Lestrange. She would live in his home and be given tasks and such by the Dark Lord. She would be wooed.

Hermione remembered that she was absolutely terrified, but grateful. It was a paradox of emotion for certain.

Rodolphus had put her up in a guest room then left her alone. He’d scoff at her occasionally. Sometimes he grumbled about living with a Mudblood, but he didn’t harm her; he didn’t speak to her. For an entire year, he said nothing to her, not even during dinner, which they had together every night unless it was otherwise planned.

She’d barely had any contact with other people. Draco came over occasionally, but he only ever teased her and acted spitefully. After fifteen months of silence, she started looking forward to Draco visiting the home and taunting her.

She thought she was going mad. At eighteen months, she spoke to Rodolphus. “How was your day?” she asked while he salted his pork. He began nodding and opened his mouth to respond before he realized what was happening. He had been so surprised, that he’d stopped, put the saltshaker down, and left the table.

Hermione hadn’t given up, though. The next night she asked again. This time he didn’t leave the table. It was six weeks of her asking when he finally answered, “Fine.”

Her heart leapt with joy. It was about this time that things started to drastically change. Draco would come over and sit quietly with her while she researched. Rodolphus asked her on more than one occasion what she was reading; even going so far as to point her to texts that may help. It was all very surreal.

Hermione went to revels; she was resistant at first, but after a rather intimate punishment, she complied willingly.

It was then that Draco and she had had sex for the first time. She hadn’t been raped exactly, but Hermione had been told that if she refused, Draco would be killed right then and there. For a split second, she knew both Draco and Lucius thought she would let him be murdered.   Instead, she had turned and opened her arms to him.

He was rough, but not violent, and Hermione was fairly certain at the time that he wasn’t normally rough.

He wasn’t, she later found out. He was quite tender; an unselfish lover. Sex with Draco was very sensual, but it could be suffocating when he was in a mood. Slow and steady for hours, with his hands constantly roaming and feeling and touching, and his lips constantly kissing and licking and mouthing. It was far too intimate for Hermione. It was why she’d started fucking Lucius. She’d figured he would be detached; cold almost.

She had been correct with her assessment. He was much colder than she could have imagined. It took her two days to recover after Lucius merrily bound, gagged, and whipped her until she couldn’t stand. It was a baptism by fire into the world of bondage. He’d also made sure that she received pleasure and not just pain. Hermione always makes sure to visit Lucius at least once per month; she realized that she needed the atonement for her living.

Although her life wasn’t what she had expected it to be, it wasn’t too bad. The most powerful wizard in London and Eastern Europe considered her research sound and her opinion credible; she lived with a dangerous fellow, who at this point, would not let anything happen to her. In fact, they spoke, lived, and bickered like siblings. Rodolphus had revealed on one drunken night that Rabastan and he had had a sister, but that she had died as a child. The small witch was someone who he had cherished. Her death had been a great loss to the brothers.

That drunken night was the same night that Hermione had become conscious of the fact that she was no longer Hermione Granger: Gryffindor, Voice for the Voiceless, and Fighter of the Oppressed. She was someone, _something_ , different.

Rodolphus and she had stumbled to their rooms to sleep. Hermione was woken a bit later by screaming coming from Rodolphus’ bedroom. Hermione had been so annoyed at being woken up that she marched down the hall, threw open his door, and yelled at him to shut the struggling, screaming woman up.

Both Rodolphus and the struggling woman had stopped to look at the small witch for a second before the woman had pleaded for help. “Please, help me,” she’d asked, with tears in her eyes.

Hermione hadn’t known what to do and it appeared that Rodolphus was curious as well. _Accioing_ her wand, Hermione cast a spell on the Muggle. “Imperious.” She paused then continued speaking, “Pleasure him.”

Rodolphus smiled. It was both proud and predatory in nature. Before Hermione walked back to her room, she heard him tell the girl to fight, followed by the chains on his bed rattling. It would be a long night for the girl.

Hermione sobbed uncontrollably that night: at the loss of her humanity, her compassion, and her _self_.

She never saw that woman again and didn’t ask what had happened to her. The very next night, she’d gone to Lucius and requested a punishment. He’d been too happy to grant her request.

**oOoOo**

There’d been another raid.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Raids were stupid.

Earlier, she had warned Voldemort against taking the Muggle Ministry in one violent attack. Her recommendation had been subtlety. The irony of that statement coming from her was not lost on her. It had even provoked a smile from a few of the more serious Death Eaters; a Gryffindor giving advice on how to be subtle to a Slytherin.

Instead of a brute force attack, she thought it would be better for him to plant seeds and slowly overcome the Muggle parliament.   One by one, wizards and witches of Voldemort’s choosing would replace the governing body. Their decisions, dictated by the Dark Lord, would affect the entire European continent. It would be a slow transition, but an effective one. Voldemort had smiled, revealing those slowly rotting teeth and nodded his agreement.

There was a hum of excitement as the prisoners were brought in. Chains rattled and bare feet slid on the floor as they shuffled to the center of the room.   Hermione was standing to the left of Voldemort’s grand chair, with Lucius to his right and Dolohov behind. The Death Eaters filled the room, making a large circle for the captured to be displayed.

Strangely, there were no House-elves. Voldemort found them disturbing. Hermione wondered if it was because their magic was much stronger than the humans they served, and only served out of a misplaced sense of duty. Lucius and Hermione often enjoyed the inside jokes they shared at the expense of their Lord’s distaste of the elves. Rodolphus would sometimes join in when he had been witness to something that struck him funny, but Lucius and Hermione didn’t need an actual event to chuckle over the powerful wizard’s phobia.

In their place, human servants quietly walked with trays of food and drink. The servants also performed sexual requests; Ginny was amongst the servant witches. The pretty redhead was currently on her knees sucking off one of the Rosier men.

Ginny’s brown eyes met Hermione’s. Hard cinnamon met the lifeless coffee of her former friend. Ginny had had nothing left when they’d been defeated, but now, she was a soulless shell of a witch. Hermione turned away and focused once again on the display.

Fred and George stared at her from across the room. Their eyes met briefly then all three continued to roam.

Another Death Eater in full regalia. Hermione fought to keep from rolling her eyes. Those days were over. They needn’t play dress up anymore, but some were quite old-fashioned.

Neville, wearing leather pants and a tight-fitted white t-shirt, looked delicious she thought. He was a full-grown man, looking nothing like the chubby boy she’d first met on the train to Hogwarts her first year. His dark eyes met hers; she felt a tightening in her stomach and heat between her legs.

Voldemort spoke and the room quieted. “On their knees!”

Hermione focused on the prisoners in the process of kneeling. It was difficult with the chains. She swallowed a gasp, but couldn’t prevent the tightening in her chest. Remus!

**oOoOo**

She couldn’t keep from moving. Pacing helped her to think. She’d been at it for hours. A door slamming shut brought her out of her reverie.

“Granger!”

Hermione frowned. _This was odd_. Lucius shouted her name again followed by his heavy footfalls up the staircase. “Hermione!”

_Must be serious_ , she thought. Lucius rarely used her first name.

She jumped into action and opened the door as Lucius turned the corner to the bedroom corridor.

The tension seemed to melt away from him when he saw her. “There you are.”

Furrowing her eyebrows once again, she stepped forward. “Are you alright? Is Draco? Rodolphus?”

Lucius halted mid step and physically reared back a bit. He recovered quickly, but her questions of their welfare surprised him. So much so that he stuttered out a quick yes in response.

They stood, facing each other, in the hallway: Lucius looking at Hermione and Hermione waiting for an explanation of his earlier urgency. This moment was a turning point in their relationship and was taken in and set aside by silent agreement.

“It’s the… “ Lucius paused then continued, “It’s Lupin. It is believed that he holds vital rebellion information. They are interrogating him now.”

Hermione’s heart hammered viciously, and she fought hard not to react. “And you came barreling around the corner because…?”

Lucius stretched his lip in irritation. “Malfoy’s do not barrel; and clearly, because _He_ thinks _you_ can help obtain the needed information.”

“Right. Well, let’s go then.”


	3. Chapter 3

**_Disclaimer: I own nothing._ **

Remus was kneeling; chains clasped around his wrists and ankles. His head was lowered and he looked tired, despondent. He was dirty and thin and panting. The room smelled of urine and sweat; a common scent that resulted from the _Cruciatus Curse_. It was Remus and he looked as he had been the victim several times.

“Remus,” Hermione whispered. She thought to refer to him by the moniker for which she’d known him, but this was not an occasion for formalities.

He raised his head slowly and looked at her for a moment until recognition lit his eyes. “Hermione?” She nodded and stepped forward. The room was silent and dim. _They_ were waiting.

Remus half sobbed; tears filling his eyes almost immediately. “Hermione,” he confirmed in a deep gravelly voice, swallowing thickly. She instantly dropped to her knees and slid towards him in one fluid motion. Grasping his rough, dirty hands in her clean ones. “Are you okay? Have you eaten? Where have you been? I thought…” She paused and blinked away her own tears.

Remus shook his head. “I could use a drink, and perhaps, some bread?” Hermione nodded furiously and looked around, her search stopping at Lucius. Her eyes, both plaintive and demanding, asked a silent question. Lucius nodded curtly, and walked briskly from the room without a word.

All noted the non-verbal communication between the two, and the immediate action on Lucius’ part, but no concern was vocalized.

Remus and Hermione didn’t speak, only held hands, while positioned on the floor amongst the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord. When Lucius returned, he handed a tray of bread, cheese and butter to Hermione, and a glass of water to Remus. He then stepped back into the darkness suspended against the edges of the room.

Remus drank deeply and fought to shove the cut loaf of bread into his mouth in one piece. He knew he had to tread lightly, but he hadn’t eaten in days. He nearly choked and heard Hermione chuff, and swallowed the last of the water. “It’s alright, Remus, there’ll be more.”

He nodded and breathed in relief. They both stiffened with the feeling of sorrow fell over them. It was Voldemort. His presence sometimes consumed the happiness, or any good feeling, in a room much the way that Dementors did.

“Mr. Lupin, is it?”

Remus nodded, and confirmed, “I am Remus Lupin.”

Voldemort stood close, too close, to Hermione, prompting her to stand. As he so often did, Voldemort trailed a long-nailed finger along her arm and tapped her knuckle lightly. It was a display of possession, _ownership_ , to the Werewolf.

 Remus had heard it loud and clear. Hazel eyes shot to the now hard cinnamon eyes. He understood.

Voldemort sneered and inhaled loudly. He announced to the room, “I think we’ve had enough this night. Hermione, take Mr. Lupin to the guest room adjoining yours, won’t you? I will send up a set of robes after he has bathed.”

“Of course, my Lord,” she answered, stunned, and took Remus’ hand. The werewolf followed at a slow pace, chains clattering, until a subtle wave of magic vanished the metal, enabling a normal pace for both former Order members.

Remus walked out of the bath clean-shaven and smelling delightful, and saw a rather antiquated nightdress laid out for him, which was commonly worn by men during mid-century, along with a set of formal day robes.

“Remus?” Hermione called, knocking softly on the door that separated their two rooms.

He pulled on the nightdress and answered. Stepping aside, he let her enter and closed the door behind her. “I thought you were dead,” he said, not able to look at her.

Hermione nodded and sat quietly on the bed.

Remus plopped down in a cushioned chair, scrubbing the top of his head with nervous fingers. His eyebrows furrowed, and he looked at her. “Before you arrived, Ginny… She- They brought her in. Her eyes… they just looked through me.” Remus had looked away from Hermione, but now he stared pointedly at her. “She tried to – to- _touch_ …”

Hermione closed her eyes, and interrupted him. “I know. That’s her role now.”

He closed his eyes, absorbing this news and mourning the vivacious redhead who he remembered. The youngest Weasley was not the same person any longer; she was broken.

Hermione let him talk; he needed to. She found out that he’d been living a solitary life for over two years in the woods of Eastern Europe. He’d attempted to live among a pack, but once the alpha had found out who he was, Remus had been excommunicated for the good of the pack. He’d understood.

 He hadn’t had any connection or communication with anyone with subversive or rebellious ideas. In fact, he had abandoned hope of ever living in a pack, human or wolf, again.

Her heart wanted to break for him or rejoice that they were reconnected, but she couldn’t.

Leaving him sleeping comfortably on the bed, she left the room and made her way down the hallway to report what she had been told. It was near 3 a.m. and the large estate was silent. When she rounded the corner, she heard movement from the tea room. Hermione rarely went inside the room. It was where Narcissa Malfoy stayed. It had been some years since Narcissa had actually spoken and interacted like a normal human being.

Now, she spent her time sitting in her chair, staring out the window.

Hermione nudged open the door and tip toed inside. What she saw stopped her cold. Lucius was touching his wife tenderly, whispering to her while he gently slid in and out of her. Narcissa’s knees were wide apart, and Lucius was reaching between her legs. His expression was one of love and hope.

Narcissa made no movement, no reaction, no response with the exception of her skin reflecting a thin sheen of sweat and her breathing quickening.

Lucius held his breath as he quietly climaxed, and buried his nose in her cheek.   Hermione heard the low murmur of his voice, “Please, ‘Cissa, speak to me.”

After a time of no response, Lucius got up and cleaned them both. He sat her straight, in her chair and kissed her cheek. “Good night, dearest.”

Hermione backed into a corner outside the room so as not to be seen.

Lucius was broken, too.

 Turning her head back to the room, Hermione was startled by the intensity of meeting Narcissa’s stare. The woman was watching her; she had known Hermione was there. No words were spoken, and before there were, Hermione backed out slowly.

Continuing on her way, she found the house empty. Voldemort was nowhere to be seen and that was just fine with her.   Her feet carried her to Lucius’ room, where she knocked twice then entered.

He was sitting on his bed, elbows on knees, his head low. “I can’t, Hermione.”

“I don’t need to be punished, Lucius… But perhaps you do.” She let the sentence hang. Lucius looked at her with relief and appreciation in his eyes. “Yes,” he agreed, with a bit of raspy desperation in his voice, and stood.

Hermione swished her wand, landing Lucius in a nude, immobile state, in mere moments. His surprise and pleasure was reflected in his quickly rising erection. Another swish, and he was bent over the bed, holding his weight with his thighs. The steps leading to the elevated sleeping nest was not quite high enough for Lucius to kneel, but it was perfect for Hermione to stand behind him.

Fingers feathered across his bare rump, tickling him at first. He wasn’t certain what she had in mind, but this was not expected. The tickling ended quickly enough followed by a slight burning sensation. It wasn’t painful yet, but it was uncomfortable.

Hermione was silent while she pondered The Wall. It held every BDSM tool known to man. She chose a thin whip; a riding crop.

Lucius’ bare skin screamed at her to mar it; to reflect the injustices that it had been a-party to. The first lash fell across his buttocks, causing only a twitch in response.

It was an empowering feeling, one that pulled from her both tenderness at wanting to provide pleasure/redemption through pain, and one of sadism at witnessing a reaction to the pain she caused.

 The next ten minutes were mixed with increasingly sharper blows and reddened skin. His back and buttocks were tarnished with angry red welts. It was beautiful.

Lucius hadn’t cried out, but his breathing had intensified and his thighs were trembling from the strain of holding himself up in a semi crouched position.

She lifted him magically, so that he was standing, providing his tired muscles some relief. “Bend over,” she said, teasing his balls with the feathered tip of the crop.

He did as he was told, slowly, uncertain. Tensing when she whispered a lubrication spell, he made to object, but found himself silenced and again immobile.

Hermione came up behind him, folding herself over his still smarting back. “Ssshhhhhhh.”

Lucius heard the snap of the button and knew what she was planning. He wasn’t sure if he wanted her to go slow or not. _Best not to dwell_ , he thought and closed his eyes to fully experience the sensations.

It was a strap-on. She was now stripped nude, wearing only the masculine apparatus. It was an interesting device, one that excited her just from concept. She slicked the phallus thoroughly while she wore it; her hand motion simulating masturbation.

She gasped when she applied more pressure. The inside tip pressed against her clitoris, arousing her. Eager to get started, Lucius bent over captured her attention, primarily his tightly clenched cheeks.

“Relax,” she urged, moving forward to massage his bum. Each circle she made, each gentle squeeze eased the anxiety. Soon, he was pliable. Continuing her massage with one hand, she pulled apart the pale globes and looked at his rosebud. Lubrication was leaking from it. There was no hair surrounding the small hole; it was pink and clean. Leaning down, she took a moment to taste. Lucius had done this a hundred times to her and each time she had nearly come as a result.

 As her tongue breached the tight ring, Lucius hissed with pleasure and contracted. In and out, her tongue fucked him, and before long, she realized that she was also stroking him. His hips were moving back and forth, and it sounded as if he would climax very shortly.

Abruptly, she stopped and pulled back. Waving her wand, Lucius jumped and looked down: a cock ring. He would not come until she let him.

“Deep breath,” she bade and began her descent, stretching the sensitive skin with the girth of the faux phallus. Lucius was breathing as she sunk in; this was not something he engaged in frequently, with other men or women. The experience was uncomfortable and pleasing; he opened his knees farther apart.

As Hermione pressed forward and pulled out, the nub inside the leather encasing pushed against her clit, stimulating her. Her pace increased, causing Lucius to both tense and grunt with pleasure. He was pushing back against her now, breathing labored and fists clenched in the sheets.

Hermione was on the brink of shattering when she waved her hand and removed the cock ring; Lucius came with a hiss, bringing Hermione with him.

**oOo**

Hermione startled at the loud crack of Apparition on her porch. Sitting up, she rolled her shoulders and stretched her tired muscles. She had come home after making sure Lucius was healed and sleeping soundly.

The wards shifted and the ripple of magic rolled over her body.

Whoever it was, was pacing. She stumbled down the stairs, up the hallway and into the foyer, cursing Rodolphus all the way for not opening the door.

She flung open the door and stopped short. It was Remus.

“Hermione,” he greeted, shoving his hands in his pockets. Hermione looked behind him and saw Dolohov was standing at the bottom of the porch steps. She frowned in confusion, but before she could act, Antonin spoke while Remus watched her intently. “He’s scheduled for _The Gathering_ this night. He came to say good bye.”

Her eyes shot to Remus’ sad, but resigned ones. She opened the door wider and beckoned them both inside. “Wait here,” she told them and rushed up stairs to her room.

Throwing on clothes, and tying her hair in a ponytail, she hopped down stairs one foot at a time, putting on her trainers. “Okay, let’s go.”

They followed her out; Antonin smirking and shaking his head; Remus confused.

The three arrived with a banging door and Hermione stomping to the study. _He_ was waiting for her, smiling. She stopped, paused to rethink her approach then bowed low; something she never did, and whispered, “My Lord, a word?”

“Of course, Hermione.”

She stood and slowly approached his chair. With a humble posture and a hesitant tone, she spoke to him, “My Lord, please, we could use Remus’ research protocols and knowledge.”

“We have you, Hermione. Are you saying that you are no longer able to perform this job?”

She swallowed down the retort to offending her pride and shook her head. “No, my Lord, I’m saying that while we have a plan for your unending reign here, why limit your authority to only this continent? Remus studied in the Americas for a time. He has a solid understanding of American politics. With his knowledge and strategy, you could rule the United States, Canada and possibly South America.”

It was a bit far-fetched even for Dolohov, who snorted his disbelief, but lucky for her and for Remus, Voldemort’s hubris knew no boundaries.

Voldemort pondered this idea for a brief moment then nodded. “Hermione, you are brilliant. Yes, but he must be kept.” Turning to Yaxley, he ordered, “Bring me Rodolphus.”

 They all stood, waiting for the eldest Lestrange. He came striding in, looking like he just rolled out of bed. “My Lord,” he greeted, kneeling.

“Hermione has just adopted a werewolf.   Make sure Greyback has a place for him to transform during the full moon.”

Rodulphus looked sideways at his roommate. She shrugged and he stretched his lip. It was hard enough getting used to her, and now he would have to get used to a half-breed.

She was going to be the death of him; he knew it.

“Yes, my lord.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

Lucius woke feeling strangely unburdened. He cleaned up, set his room to right, and walked gracefully down to the dining room to break his fast. He greeted his son and Dolohov good morning, and when the Dark Lord entered, he stood then bowed his head respectfully.

They spoke about that night’s event. Voldemort decided that Lupin could provide no information and that the only good Gryffindor is a dead one; select few excluded.

**< 3**

Lucius watched Hermione come ‘barreling’ in. He watched her stroke the ego of the most manic wizard in two generations and he watched as Hermione retired to the library after looking longingly at Longbottom.

Lucius inhaled and a small voice in the back of his mind hoped that Hermione would return to him.

**OoOoO**

It had been a long day, and Hermione and Remus had spent most of it in the library trying to find a unification spell for souls, but had come up empty. They had been at this for at least two weeks. It irritated her that the day after she gave Voldemort an avenue in which to use Remus’ skills, he tasked them finding this stupid spell.

 She was now tossing and turning unable to sleep when she got frustrated and climbed out of bed.

Making her way to the Lestrange library, she decided to Floo to Malfoy Manor and search there once again.

Hermione walked slowly down the hallway, looking at each sleeping portrait. As she neared the library, a noise to her left stopped her. It was Narcissa. She was standing in the hall watching Hermione.

“Are-are you alright, Mrs. Malfoy?”

The expression on the woman’s face was strange. It beckoned Hermione to follow her; she did. Once inside the tearoom, Narcissa turned and roughly took hold of Hermione’s shoulders.

“Please,” she keened. “I can’t… anymore.”

Tears streamed down her skin. Her hair, Hermione just noticed, was askew and her dress was rumpled. Hermione, wanting to help the woman; out of guilt for fucking her husband or her son or just walking around free to do what she liked, prompted the next action. Hermione put her hands over Narcissa’s and stepped closer to her. “What can I do to help you?”

Narcissa let go and looked at her very seriously. “I don’t want to be here any longer. I can’t do this…” She sounded like a child; weak and terrified.

“What shall I do then?” Hermione’s mind was flipping through mental logs of places she could hide Narcissa; places they could go.

As if Narcissa knew the train of Hermione’s thoughts, she said, with resounding alertness, “No.”

Frowning, Hermione shook her head in confusion. “Release me,” Narcissa begged. “They won’t help me. You must, Hermione.”

Those words stole Hermione’s breath and broke whatever pieces of her heart were left.

She couldn’t. It was wrong.

Narcissa was sobbing now.

The two witches must have stayed that way for ten minutes before Hermione felt Draco’s presence behind her. “Set her free, Granger,” he whispered.

Narcissa turned to him, with wide eyes and slight smile. “Thank you,” she mouthed and looked expectantly at Hermione.

Hermione felt the need to leave; to turn tail and run back the Lestrange Abbey and not return for years, but as she moved, Lucius’ sad face gave her pause. “I can’t,” he rasped.

The responsibility was now set squarely on Hermione’s shoulders, and though she had killed before, it was never like this.

She could rationalize that it was a mercy killing. But Hermione wasn’t certain this woman deserved mercy, or maybe she did. _Who was she to judge?_

“Please?” Narcissa pleading was Hermione’s undoing. She slowly pulled her wand and conjuring the anger she’d repressed at the atrocities she’d witnessed, she whispered the words that would end this woman’s life, “ _Avada Kedavra_.”

She was going to be sick. Running out of the room and out to the meadows, she didn’t stop until she came upon a small cabin with a fire lit inside. Out of breath and on the brink of hysteria, Hermione looked inside the window hoping for a giant shelf of liquor that she could abscond with. What she found was Neville.

“Neville!” she half whispered, half cried.

His head snapped to the window and their eyes met. He was certain he hadn’t ever moved so fast in his life as he ran from the living area to the front door. Neville swallowed while they stared at each other; him in his doorway, her from the window. They were just two metres away from each other, but it seemed like an ocean apart. “Come in,” he ordered. His voice cracked and she gave him a soft smile. There was still some of her Neville left in there somewhere.

 Stepping inside, she inhaled as she passed him. He smelled earthy and masculine and slightly musky. It was then that she took in his attire: sweat pants, a tank top and trainers.

“Were you exercising?” she asked.

He nodded, but didn’t say anything, only stepped closer to her. Hermione’s hands crept up to his chest; his very hard, very muscled chest. He moved closer once more and the musky scent of him got stronger. “Neville?” she asked, lifting her face as his lips lowered to hers.

“Hmmmm?” he answered just before the softest, most passionate kiss engulfed them like a slow burning flame.

After the kiss, the rest was a blur. Flesh against flesh, breath mingling with breath, sweaty skin and slick movements. Nerves were tingling, toes were curling, hair was sticking, voices were mumbling, fingers were gripping, nails were scratching. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this full or satisfied as he pushed and pulled inside of her. He loved her and he knew she loved him… still after all this time; their hearts beat for each other.

“Oh! Yes, yes, yes…” she cried, spreading her knees and thrusting her hips upwards. “Don’t stop, don’t stop!”

Neville grunted, praying he wouldn’t come before she did. Angling his hips, he rotated and shoved, making her scream in completion. He didn’t need to pull out; his cock throbbed, releasing himself inside of her.

Their breathing was calming and Hermione’s skin was erupting in goose flesh. “I don’t mean to kill the moment, but I’m pretty sure I have callouses on my vertebrae and hip bones from the floor. Would it be all right if we moved this to-“ she twisted her neck around to view the surroundings, “move this farther inside the house. The foyer is lovely, but I’d like to see the rest of the home.”

Chuckling, Neville nodded and stood, pulling her up with him.   They gathered their clothes and walked into the living area, where they curled up together with a soft blanket. They sat in silence, until Hermione spoke. “I killed Narcissa Malfoy.”

 Neville didn’t bat an eyelash; just remained with his arms around her, silent, waiting. “They were all there: Lucius, Draco and Narcissa. She asked me to set her free.”

Neville kissed her temple, but still said nothing.

It was in the wee hours of the morning when Hermione Apparated to Lestrange Abbey after a kiss to Neville’s cheek. He had smiled and squeezed her hands then let her go.

By noon, she and Remus were walking down the hallway of the Rosier home towards the library. Hermione had found some interesting references to a particular magic and she needed to investigate it further. She hadn’t shared her motivations with Remus; he just followed her, rarely saying anything in conversation. Voldemort called him her pet, and she was beginning to believe that Remus was assuming that role mentally. She had to figure out a way to bring him back from the brink of defeat. She needed him.

Just before they entered the library, a familiar redhead entered Hermione’s line of sight at the foot of the grand staircase. Ginny was buttoning her shirt when she looked up and came to a halt.

The two girls hadn’t spoken in some time. Hermione blinked and Ginny inhaled. “Hermione.”

“Ginny.”

Ginny’s eyes shifted to Remus’ downcast head and his rather submissive posture. As if he were trying to melt into the wall. Hermione decided that this was as good a time as any. “The lioness tires of the games. It’s nearly time to return to the den, with her cubs.”

A silence pregnant with tension grew between the two witches. It seemed like a lifetime before Ginny responded. “The lioness need only call and her cubs will come running.”

Both girls turned when they heard a low growl; it was Remus and he was now standing with his back straight and shoulders squared. He opened the door to the library, and bade Hermione pass. “Shall we?”

Hermione felt joy pulse through her and was worried for a moment that she would burst into a giant ball of light. “We shall.”

The evolution of Hermione’s grand plan didn’t come together as quickly as she had hoped, but it did come together. Two weeks later Lucius had walked in to the Lestrange library to see her scribbling furiously on a scroll that was already six feet in length. He watched her for a moment then cleared his throat to let her know he was there.

She jerked and looked up. “Lucius… Hello. What brings you?” she asked, standing and moving towards the tray of tea to pour him a cup.

He didn’t move, and she wasn’t certain he was breathing. He just looked at her. She frowned and put the porcelain cup back on the tray only half filled. “Lucius, are you alright?”

Lucius was trying to pull his thoughts together enough to maintain his normally confident appearance and understand why she hadn’t come to see him. _Was she angry over Narcissa? Did she know that I owe her for allowing my wife to move on? Was she aware that I am …fond of her?_ _More than fond._

“Lucius, perhaps you should sit.”

He was resistant, but then he walked and then he stopped, making Hermione trip. “Are you cross with me, Hermione?”

“No.” She was confused.

“Why haven’t you …visited? Draco says that he hasn’t seen you either. Has our Lord instructed you-“

“Lucius, stop. I’ve been occupied with research. And as you know, I can lose myself in it.” She wanted to explain more, but a thought stopped her. _Why was he even asking?_

Hermione’s head tilted and she viewed him quizzically.

Lucius didn’t respond with an answer. Instead, he changed the subject. “What are you researching?”

Her eye ticked and her posture straightened just a hair, but it was enough to give Lucius enough of an answer. Hermione was still Gryffindor at heart, and stoicism was not their strong suit. He knew she was on to something that would put an end to all of their miseries.   He realized with a sudden jolt that he wanted in. If he played this the wrong way though, she wouldn’t let him help, and that would mean she wouldn’t see him… ever again. That was not something he was willing to concede. He wasn’t sure it was love; he’d never felt the kind of love that storybooks were written, but he knew that he was emotionally attached to her, _strongly_ emotionally attached to her.

He sat, while she stood, and looked up at her. “I’ll help.”

Her eyebrow quirked upwards and she plopped down on a chair with a sigh. “While looking up spells for uniting souls, or in this case, making one soul whole again, I found leads for removing souls from their hosts/bodies, which then will-“

“Render them without their magic,” Lucius concluded, interrupting her.

Hermione nodded and watched him for signs of unease. It was there, but not the kind that would lead to betrayal. After a moment of him absorbing this news and processing it, he asked, “What can I do to assist?”

She immediately stood and walked over to the desk to pull a large tome from the bottom of the pile. She waved her hand and the book opened near the end. She flipped a few pages and scrolled down with her finger on the text. “Here,” she said and handed him the book with her finger marking the spot.

Lucius’ grey eyes scanned the text and then rescanned. Once she was confident he was done, she said, “It eludes to two of the three last ingredients for the potion. I have the spell, but need the potion, how to brew it, and blood.”

Lucius’ head snapped up to meet her serious gaze at the last word. That would be nearly impossible to obtain. Blood was not freely given in the wizarding community, as it could be used against them in many different ways. And retrieving blood from the Dark Lord… well, that was not going to happen without a fight.

Hermione quickly continued, “It only needs to be familial blood – paternal if possible.”

Lucius nodded. “I have baby dragon’s scale, and the moonlight lily dew.”   Lucius mumbled something else and Hermione thought she heard him wrong. “Pardon me, what did you say?” Her heart was racing. It couldn’t be.

Lucius’ entire countenance changed as he stood. “Come with me,” he ordered, holding out his hand for her to take. They Disapparated with a quiet pop.

Hermione opened her eyes to mountain views and a huge crack in the earth several hundred feet below them. Her face reflected complete surprise. “Are we at the Grand Canyon in the US?”

Lucius nodded and walked a little ways down the trail and into a cave-like dwelling in the earth of the side of the mountain; a pueblo. “The Lioness Awakens,” Lucius called.

A tall man with dark hair and pale features walked slowly out of the shadows. She didn’t recognize him, but when he spoke, her face broke out into a happy grin. “It’s about time,” Severus responded, preparing himself for the onslaught of hugging that was sure to follow with Hermione Granger, but it didn’t come. She just looked at him with tears in her eyes. “You’re –You’re alive.”

“I am.”

It was then that she crumbled; on her knees, sobbing and sniffling. It had been so long since she’d felt hope, but now, with Lucius and Severus, Neville and Remus, and Ginny and the twins… _hopefully_ the twins, they stood a chance. “There are more of us, Hermione,” Severus said after letting her get it all out.

Gathering her wits about her, she told Severus and Lucius everything. Now they needed his blood.

With Lucius and Severus reading texts on how to add the ingredients it was hit or miss with proper measurements and how best to apply said ingredients. The text stated that before adding the blood, the mixture was to be a bright golden brown. Whenever they got to the point where it was supposed be golden, it suddenly turned a green sludge color and bubbled dangerously.

Hermione was frustrated beyond belief. They’d been at this for weeks. It was time for some creative thinking and she knew just who could help, but the question was, would they?

Hermione turned to Neville to ask them if they would help. She hadn’t spoken to them in at least two years and even if they saw each other occasionally, she had no way of knowing if they were happy or just pretending.

A few days later, a Howler came soaring into the library. She opened it tentatively, wondering whom in the world would send her something like this. It reminded her of Mrs. Weasley. Peeling back the lip, it fluttered in the air then let out a mighty lion’s roar. The Howler then exploded into a puff of smoke that spelled Forge; the twins were with her.

They had to meet in secret so as not to raise any red flags, but even the twins couldn’t prevent eventual discovery.

It was a wintery evening, and the blustery winds were whipping around the pueblo where Severus lived. Lucius, Hermione, Severus and Fred and George were each brewing their own versions of the potion sans Voldemort’s blood.

The loud howling masked the pop of Apparition and it wasn’t until the door banged open that they each froze and looked up, momentarily at a loss for what to do. Standing there, large as life, was Rodolphus Lestrange, and he looked very cross. His blue-green eyes found Hermione’s brown ones before they softened a bit. “You’re planning a coup, and Lucius and Severus are helping.” It was a statement not a question, but Hermione didn’t want to acknowledge it just yet. His demeanor was off, and she didn’t trust herself to hope that he was with her.

Lucius cleared his throat. “I’m tired, Rodolphus. Of the violence, of the control. I just want to live.” It was quietly said, but Lucius was ready for a fight, to the death if necessary. Maybe it would give the rest of them time to escape. But Lucius knew they’d be running for the rest of their lives.

It was the longest thirty seconds of Hermione’s life, before Rodolphus nodded slowly. “How can I assist?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

Another month passed before they could do anything about adding the last ingredient. Including Fred and George had been successful risk; their thinking combined with Severus’ natural problem-solving nature and Lucius’ ‘by the book’ approach solved the potion problem. It now turned the requisite bright golden brown color.

A month later they were getting antsy. However, the waiting was over.

The blood came quite coincidentally. The Dark Lord had been dueling when Rosier cast a Slicing Hex, catching the powerful wizard in the arm. Luckily, Remus had been in the room and Accio’d ( _one of the few spells he could perform both without a wand and silently_ ) Voldemort’s blood. Hermione walked in just as she saw Remus focus. Her brain slipped into overdrive and she conjured a vial, slammed it into Remus’ hands and raised her wand to heal Voldemort.

The wizard watched her with eyes that looked through her, but she kept her head down and continued whispering the healing spell. Once she was done and his wounds were stitched together, he turned his focus to Rosier, who now looked very nervous and said, “Goodbye. Avada Kedavra.”

“Thank you, Hermione.” Then he left the room.

‘They’ decided to brew the potion that night. No time like the present.

**oOo**

They had no idea what the shelf-life of the brew was, so they wanted to use it immediately, but now they sat, trying to figure out how to get the Dark Lord, _paranoid_ Dark Lord, to ingest the concoction and not kill Hermione before she could finish the spell weaving.

Hermione nearly laughed out loud as she opened and read a missive from Voldemort. There was to be a revel tonight. The Fates seemed to be working with her.

 

**oOo**

Hermione entered the large hall of Rowle estate, with Remus in tow. He was two steps behind her and to her left. There were more people there than she had seen previously at a revel; not since the month after the defeat to celebrate. It made her nervous. _What is he up to?_

“Ah, Hermione. Welcome,” Voldemort greeted, with arms wide and his teeth rotting for the world to see.

“My Lord,” she responded, with her head bowed. She felt under dressed, but as looked around, she saw that she wasn’t.

“Shall we drink to success and broadening our horizons?” It was a reference to the idea of ruling North America. Hermione smiled tentatively and nodded. “Yes, my Lord.”

Ginny appeared beside Hermione and handed her two cups; one for her and one for Lord Voldemort. He stood watching the both of them, but didn’t speak. He just smiled maliciously. It was unnerving.

He then turned away from her in a grand gesture for the audience to raise their cups. Hermione quickly mumbled a spell transferring the potion she carried into the cup she would offer him. She pleaded with every deity she could think of that he didn’t feel the magic of the spell.

Her eyes shifted to the crowd gathered and paused at each of her cohorts. Lucius swallowed nervously and Rodolphus shifted his balance from one foot to the other.

When Voldemort turned back to her, Hermione was in a curtsy, with the cup held high. “To you, my Lord.”

Skeletal fingers reached for the gold goblet. Hermione stood, and together they drank. As her lips moved inside her cup, whispering the spell, the air became heavy and sweat began to bead across her forehead. Voldemort continued to drink. Wine spilled from his mouth to line the sides of his chin, and drip to his chest.

The weight of the spell fell upon her, and her hand shook. Her eyes once again scanned the people there; Lucius was casting the spell, too, as was Neville and Rodolphus.

A minute passed with no reaction from Voldemort, but Hermione couldn’t bear it any longer. Her cup dropped from her hand and fell to her knees, still she cast.

Voldemort laughed at her futility. “My dear Hermione, I am too powerful to be …overrun by a mere Mudblood. Did you believe that you and your half breed would be able to defeat the great Lord Voldemort?”

It was then that Rodolphus stepped forward and sent the killing curse to Yaxley then to Rosier; then it was chaos. Remus pulled Hermione from the floor and into a corner. She was drained and was having difficulty standing.

Remus skidded over to capture a dropped wand from a now dead Death Eater, and began shooting spells into the fray. Hermione was drained and was having trouble keeping her eyes open, but her mouth was moving and she was muttering the spell. Remus was in front of her, protecting her, Lucius and Rodolphus were firing spells and then taking cover, the twins were somewhere… Hermione just felt like crying. Her head was pounding.

Soon, the noise faded and her body relaxed. When she focused again, her sight was blurry and she could only make out two shadowed forms, which were walking towards her. Her mind scrambled to make sense of the silence and the peace. _Where had everyone gone?_

Her body twitched into motion to find her wand, but it was nowhere within her grasp. Standing up, ready for a fight, she braced herself against the wall. But in the next moment, when the shadowed figures came into focus, she nearly dropped to floor once again. Harry and Ronald. They were smiling at her. She cried out to them and ran with her arms wide open, embracing them in a strong hug. She was loathe to release them, but it was Ron’s huffed request that effectively unlocked her arms. “’Rmione, can’t breathe.”

“Sorry,” she sobbed.

Harry, never one to tarry, got right to the point. “You must wake up. You have to finish this. We’re with you. We never left. Remember that we love you.”

“I love you, too!” Hermione was still sobbing uncontrollably, so her response didn’t come out as smoothly as she’d hoped. Ron’s smile was smaller now and he was rubbing her back in a comforting manner. “’Mione-love, look at me,” Ron ordered quietly.

Her wet-from-tears face turned to his. “You can do this, but first, you need to wake up.” She was nodding and heard her name being called… loudly. “Hermione!” It was George.

They were hunched hear her, Remus was immediately in front of her and Lucius and Rodulphus were holding down the fort so to speak. Her eyes scanned the battle looking for Voldemort. She found him in the corner of the room, smiling at the chaos. Their eyes met and his smile widened.

“Did it work?” she asked.

“We don’t know,” someone answered.

Picking up her wand, she whispered a complex charm, one that wound its way through the spell casters and met the smiling face of Voldemort. “ _Avada Kedavra_ ,” it hissed.

Voldemort continued to smile, but then, seemingly in slow motion, it lost its zest and he fell to the ground. That was when his loyal Death Eaters dropped their wands and rubbed their heads in confusion.

Remus helped Hermione to stand. She was confused, Draco looked at her like he was confused and Neville shook his head. It was Lucius who connected the dots. “The _Imperious._ It was still his magic, he just couldn’t command it any longer, but when he died, the magic died too.”

It was slightly anticlimactic, but Hermione would take it.

 

**_OoOoO The After_ **

 

“Push, Hermione!” he said, his voice filled with excitement. She thought that it should be filled with concern for her, but he had waited a long time for this, so she could understand, but still…

Seven years ago, they finally defeated an evil. _They_ : a small contingent of stricken Gryffindors and beaten Slytherins. They’d removed the evil’s magic and killed him, setting free the minds of many pureblood wizards and witches.

What happened next was odd.

Things went back to normal.

 _The Daily Prophet_ reported Voldemort’s death and the nomination of a new Minister in the same headline.

Remus was welcomed back into a pack, where he flourished and finally found a mate. Hermione visited him every so often.

Fred and George reopened their joke shop and were now owners of a chain all over wizarding Europe.

Ginny tried out and was recruited for the Holyhead Harpies. She played Seeker. She never married, and it was rumored that she didn’t date… ever.

Draco left Europe to explore business in Canada, where he disappeared. They received an owl every few years or so letting them know he was still alive, but that was it. Hermione understood.

Rodolphus became a scholar and recluse. Hermione was still close to him and would often enjoy an evening reading with him, but he didn’t leave Lestrange Abbey for the remainder of his life.

Hermione knew that she couldn’t face life without Neville; she wouldn’t. He’d told her that he loved her almost as soon as Voldemort’s body had hit the ground. Lucius had watched them with something akin to crushing disappointment, but when she reached out to him, he strode forward and embraced them both.

There had been growing pains and rumors and bickering and full-blown fights between the three of them, but they had managed for these last seven years. They’d been married on Lestrange’s land, so Rodolphus could attend, two years prior. Now they were welcoming the birth of their first child together. Neither Neville nor Lucius knew whose baby it was, but they had a bet on if the child would have blond or black hair.

A cry signaled the arrival of a beautiful baby girl with Hermione’s russet colored hair and curls. It wasn’t until she opened her eyes that the Malfoy gray eyes shone back at them.

Lucius smiled and looked over at Neville, who had good-naturedly quirked an eyebrow at his co-husband. “Pay up, Longbottom!”


End file.
